Words With No Translation
by missmandamargo
Summary: It's their first summer together; the first one that launches a series of events that Quinn calls traditions, but that Santana calls life, fate — inevitable destiny.


**A/N**: Based off a prompt given to me back in July. A/U; Beth never happened, and there's no romantic Brittana background.

This is for Amy!

* * *

She doesn't know how exactly these things got to be _traditions. _Santana hates that word, anyway, so she tries to avoid using it at all cost. Still, if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, then.. it's a damn tradition. Quinn is right about that, at least, even if she's right about almost nothing else.

It started the summer between sophomore year and junior year, when Brittany took a vacation with her parents to Norway – she was gone the entire time, and their threesome became the most awkward of twosomes. Really, if it hadn't been for Brittany leaving them both with stern orders to _play nice_, Santana probably would have locked herself in her room and avoided the world for three straight months. She doesn't feel right without Brittany, and things up to that point had always been strange between her and Quinn. She couldn't say if they were actually friends or rivals due to the odd push-pull nature of their relationship.. it always seemed too static at the edges, with the smiles that never really reached their eyes and catty remarks. Santana has never known much about Quinn except that it was easier to work with her than against her, and – until that summer – Santana was content with the arrangement.

Part of her blames Brittany, because she thinks that the lack of her best friend gives her phantom pangs – like people who have lost a limb and claim to still have feeling in their absent appendage. When she finds herself wandering up to the Fabray front door nearly a week after Brittany's flight out of Lima, she thinks that it's just her brain missing the constant energy of someone next to her. She imagines that she feels more affection for Quinn than she actually does; it's attributed to loneliness. Regardless of this, and the other dozen ways she tried to talk herself out of it, she lifts her finger and punches the white button for the doorbell.

It takes a moment, and all the while, Santana fidgets – though she would never admit to _nervousness._ Of course she isn't nervous. She just.. doesn't know what to expect. Santana likes a challenge, and it puts her on edge; that's why she's so uneasy. Of course.

The last thing she expects is for Quinn to answer the door in ragged sweatpants and a natty t-shirt, her hair bound up in a pink bandana. Quinn's green eyes go wide with shock, and Santana feels a momentarily flare of accomplishment – she _loves_ catching Quinn off guard, it proves that she's human – but a moment later, Quinn's eyes go cold and calculating, and she sweeps her gaze up and down Santana. Santana is dressed in the casually done-up way that makes it look like she just threw herself together and somehow managed to look fabulous, even though the truth is she spent the better part of an hour carefully picking every piece of clothing and accessory.

"You're going to have to change," Quinn says, finally, resting her hip on the doorjamb.

"Excuse me?" Santana quirks an eyebrow.

"We're cleaning out my attic." Quinn shrugs, and turns away from Santana. She walks back into her house, and Santana is left on the front porch to debate on whether or not she should follow. It takes a split second before she decides to enter the Fabray domicile, if only because her curiosity is piqued by seeing the flawless Quinn Fabray in her spring-slash-summer cleaning attire.

Santana rues all of the effort she put into curling her hair, because Quinn throws a scrunchie at her, along with a pair of basketball shorts and an old, faded WMHS gym shirt. Santana changes with only mild grumbling about her designer shoes and diamond earrings; yet she can't help but notice the way Quinn's gaze catches and lingers on her topless abdomen, skimming up and down with a slant-eyed look. It throws Santana off – she feels like the ground beneath her is unsteady, but only for an instant. Santana is used to other people noticing her; that isn't what is so unsettling. What unsettles her is that it's Quinn, of all people – Quinn who spent the last two years of their high school career with her nose in the air and a sermon on her lips about abstinence, modesty, and the evils of sex before marriage.

Quinn's attic is a lesson in Hoarders: Buried Alive. Santana can't stop the way her eyes go wide at the haphazard piles of crap that reach from floor to rafter, and the way that everything is covered in a layer of dust and grime.

"Quinn, I need a hazmat suit to even be up here," Santana says.

"Man up, Lopez," Quinn says, and she's already elbow deep in a box in the far corner. Santana hasn't taken a step further into the attic, and she's keenly aware that her escape route lies directly behind her.

"Man up or get out," Quinn's back is to Santana and her words are muffled. "It makes no difference to me."

Santana debates making a quick and painless exit. Really – any sane person would. There is _no way_ Santana Lopez is cut out to be Cinderella, and especially not without the benefit of talking rodents to help her pass the time.

But her phantom limb – the place in her heart that Brittany has occupied for years beyond count – twinges. She inhales deeply, and then sighs, and shuffles into the attic. Quinn is smirking when she turns around, an expression of gloating triumph on her face; it would have made Santana's temper flare at any other time, but presently, Quinn has a smear of dirt on her nose, and Santana can't find anything but humor in that.

She lets Quinn sort through boxes for the next four hours with the gray streak on her face, and she has to bite the inside of her cheek any time her eyes make contact with it.

Mostly, Santana picks at items with the tips of her fingers, and moves them from one dilapidated box to another. Quinn grunts and heaves old antiques and keepsakes, forming piles of things to keep and things to donate and things to throw away. Santana sneezes enough that she resents Quinn for this whole fiasco. They don't exchange much conversation, but just being near her sates Santana's phantom limb. It isn't ideal – well, it isn't Brittany and margaritas at the poolside while her sexy pool boy flirts with them in the middle of the heat – but it's good enough.

"That's enough for today," Quinn declares, even though the attic looks like more of a chaotic mess than it did before. Santana just nods, and follows Quinn down the stairs into her house.

"I need a shower." Quinn says, and she sweeps her eyes over Santana – who feels that strange, frozen, tight feeling again – and then nods. "You too."

Santana doesn't argue. Maybe it's because they've spent the better part of the day in complete silence, but she doesn't feel the urge to snap and snark like usual. She just allows Quinn to thrust another set of clothes into her arms, along with a towel, and direct her into the bathroom.

Santana showers and thinks about Quinn's eyes. She doesn't know why it makes her skin go hot and tingly, even though the water is tepid – almost too cold. Her cheeks flush, and she tries to ignore it.

After their showers, Quinn leaves Santana in her room. Santana clasps her hands in her lap and looks around at the rose-colored carpet and soft pastel bedspread. It feels too formal and put together for Santana, whose room is a complete mess. She wants to wreck through Quinn's jewelry boxes, leave scarves draped over hard surfaces, pin up posters of gaudy bands. She doesn't like Quinn's brass headboard or her floral print wallpaper.

Quinn returns clasping a box of wine that makes Santana's eyebrows raise. Quinn grins, and Santana feels – well, it isn't just a _flutter._ It's more like a kick-punch-_crunch _feeling in her gut, and it makes her heart race. Quinn doesn't say anything, just gestures with her head to her window.

Santana isn't so sure this is a good idea – but Quinn heaves herself out and then upwards, climbing onto her roof, even with the box of wine tucked beneath her arm. Santana swallows the nerves and follows after her, only because she finds it impossible to ignore the gleam in Quinn's eyes.

Quinn is already resting with her back against the rough tar tiles of the roof when Santana joins her, picking delicately over the shingles. Quinn pillows her head with one of her arms, and once Santana sits, she offers her a tiny plastic cup.

Santana doesn't know where the cup came from. She didn't see it on Quinn before. But she doesn't question, instead gulping at the too-sweet, translucent wine that sloshes around in the cup. Quinn watches her drain it, and Santana is keenly aware of Quinn's eyes on her face. She's glad that the sun is setting and the shadows are long, because otherwise, Quinn would easily be able to see the flush on her cheeks.

It feels like hours before Quinn finally starts to talk. Santana has grown accustomed to the silence between them, and cup after cup of cheap wine has made her tongue swell in her mouth and the expanse of stars above their heads seems to swim slowly. The air is thick and heavy, weighed down by heat, and faraway are the sounds of chirping crickets and buzzing mosquitos.

"Do you ever think about your life?" Quinn asks. Her voice is quiet and distant, and Santana – though she has to squint – turns to focus on Quinn. Quinn stares straight upwards, and Santana can tell that the alcohol has made Quinn's cheeks pink and her lips impossibly red.

"Sometimes," Santana admits. She rubs the back of her hand over her face, as if trying to erase the numbness there.

"We have to leave Lima, Santana." Quinn says it with bitter resignation. "We can't stay here."

"I know." Santana swallows. "We will."

Quinn turns her head, and Santana tenses beneath the weight of Quinn's scrutiny. In the darkness, Quinn's eyes are a dense gray color – flecked with black and gold. Just the way Quinn's eyes scan over her face makes Santana's pulse jump. She holds her breath, as if to pause in the moment.

"If we don't, we'll die." Quinn says with absolute certainty.

Santana feels a chill run down her spine at that revelation.

"You aren't going to die, Quinn." Santana breathes through the tightness in her chest.

Quinn's eyes narrow and her lips turn downwards. Her expression is at once angry and bitter, and it makes nerves coil and tense inside of Santana. "You can't say things like that." Quinn clears her throat, as if trying to banish any emotion building there. "You don't know anything."

Santana inhales sharply, because Quinn's words feel like knives digging into her belly. Blindly, she reaches out in the space between them, until she finally finds Quinn's hand. She holds onto it with both of her own, even though Quinn only responds by blinking slowly at her. "I do know," Santana insists. "I know it, because you'll get out of here."

Quinn studies her for a moment more, and Santana tries to make sure her face is open and steady. It's a struggle, because that's the opposite of how she feels – she feels worn down and weak, and like everything inside of her is shaking.

"Maybe you're right," Quinn says, finally, and she turns her head away, back to look up at the sky.

"I am."

Quinn doesn't argue with her anymore. They stay on the roof until the sky is streaked with pink and pearl, and they're so waterlogged and full of wine that they have to help each other back through Quinn's bedroom window. Santana knows that by the heady, heavy way her head is spinning that she shouldn't drive.

"Just stay," Quinn says, as if reading her mind.

Santana does, and for the first time ever, she falls asleep next to someone – and she doesn't wish it was Brittany.

In fact, she's a tiny bit glad that it's Quinn.

* * *

They spend the better part of a week repeating this routine, until Santana has finally had enough.

"There's no help for this, Quinn." Santana says, throwing her hands up. Quinn eyes her from behind a pile of boxes stacked unsteadily in a corner, and her hair is matted and stuck to her forehead by streaks of grime and dust. Santana wipes the back of her wrist over her own forehead, and grimaces at the layer of sweat that comes away.

It's stifling in the attic, especially in the midday heat. The dust that covers _everything_ makes it hard to breathe. And Santana is tired of being dirty. It's dim, it's claustrophobic, and frankly – it's giving her the willies.

"It has to be done," Quinn says, her tone resolute.

"No! This is atrocious. Have you _read_ Flowers in the Attic?" Santana is exasperated. "Do you know what _happens_ to people who spend all of their time in one?"

Quinn rises slowly from her crouched position, an amused expression on her face. "What exactly happens to them?"

Santana's retort dies on her lips, because she notices that Quinn is looking at her again – looking in the way that makes her tongue feel clumsy in her mouth and her cheeks too hot, and like her heart is doing flip-flops in her chest.

"Uh." Santana shifts nervously. "Bad things, okay? Let's just get out of here. For one day, Quinn."

Quinn purses her lips, studying Santana's face, and Santana is boiling with the pressure and nerves that jolt and jump beneath her skin whenever Quinn does that – she has to bite her lip and flex her fingers to keep herself still.

Finally, Quinn nods. "Okay. What did you have in mind?"

Santana smiles.

* * *

Santana knows that Quinn might have rolled her eyes and scoffed at the idea, but she's totally digging their impromptu road trip.

Santana fills up the gas tank, and while she does so, Quinn unbuckles herself from the passenger seat and slides over the center console, to take Santana's place in the driver's seat.

"Really, Fabray?" Santana says with an aggrieved sigh.

Quinn smirks, her eyes half-lidded, as if she already knows that she'll win any kind of contest between them.

The oppressive heat of the day makes Santana's body leak sweat, and the noisome scent of the gas station – spilled gasoline, baked concrete, exhaust – makes her feel like, maybe, she was already halfway defeated.

She sits into the passenger seat and clicks her seatbelt into place, and then turns to look at Quinn. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see," Quinn says.

Santana wonders why she lets Quinn have all of the control. This is, after all, _her _distraction from the absence of Brittany, and _her_ ploy to get Quinn out of her stuffy attic. But she's too preoccupied by the swimming in her chest to really bother with arguing. Quinn is, just like she always has, asserting her right to be the _pulling _force in their relationship; Santana is just abstaining from _pushing_ back. For now. It's the summer heat; it makes her drowsy.

That's what she tells herself.

Their drive is void of conversation, with silence punctuated only by the low hum of the radio. Santana watches the landscape as Quinn drives due west, further and further outside of the city limits of Lima. She takes an exit off the highway that leads directly to a narrow dirt and gravel road, with lush trees on either side – they nearly reach in the middle, their branches tangling overhead. It goes dim and Quinn slows down to a moderate pace. Santana looks at her with anxiety, but Quinn just smirks, and keeps her gaze forward.

It feels like an eternity of jostling over ruts in the road and turning down narrow, twisty curves before Quinn finally stops, pulling off of the road directly onto a grassy lot. Santana opens her car door hesitantly, and by the time she finally stands, Quinn has already rounded the hood of the car and is pulling her forward. She shuts the door behind Santana, and Santana looks at her curiously.

"Where are we?"

"My grandfather owns this." Quinn says simply, and she takes Santana by the wrist, leading her further into the clearing.

Santana is a little bit charmed by the large tree with the thick, sturdy branch that supports a faded tire swing. She looks at it fondly, but Quinn pulls her past it, closer to where the vegetation starts to thicken, and soon Santana is dodging low-growing thickets and shrubs, and pushing the branches of bushes out of the way. Quinn twists and turns through them as if she knows the way, and Santana can only pray that she doesn't wrench an ankle or catch poison ivy.

Finally, the foliage thins, and Santana's eyebrows shoot upwards at the unexpected sight of a small lake. Is it even a lake? It might be a pond, though it isn't _that_ small. A watering hole, an outlet, something. Quinn is already ten strides ahead of her, walking along the sandy, gritty shoreline towards a tiny wooden dock. Santana follows, and by the time she catches up, Quinn has removed the tarp from the smallest, most weathered boat Santana has ever seen.

"Uh, you've lost your damn mind if you think I'm getting in that," Santana says dubiously.

Quinn huffs out a laugh and shakes her head. Santana notices the way her hair sticks to her forehead, and how the heat makes her sweat and her skin turn red, and Santana doesn't know why it makes her heartbeat increase, thudding painfully behind her ribs.

"Just trust me, Santana," Quinn says, a moment later. She's holding an old rope in one hand, and the boat is rocking steadily against the dock. "You'll be fine."

Santana bites her lip. "I mean, not to sound racist, but the media is going to be a lot less concerned about my disappearance and drowning out in the sticks than they would be of yours." Santana narrows her eyes. "And I, like, am afraid of snapping turtles. And slimy fish. And pretty much anything alive in that water."

Quinn laughs, this time from deep in her gut. Santana grins in response, because she can see all of Quinn's teeth and she doesn't know when the last time it was that Quinn laughed like that.

"I won't let you drown, Santana."

_Promise?_ Santana wants to ask. It's on the tip of her tongue, only a second away from escaping her lips. But she can't – she can't let herself seem that weak.

"I promise," Quinn assures her anyway. The look she gives Santana is full of knowing, and it makes the heat rise in Santana _again;_ she's beginning to wonder if there's something wrong with her biology.

Santana steps unsteadily into the boat, and she yelps when she feels herself start to lose her balance – her arms flail out, grappling the air, and she sucks in to shriek when, suddenly, she feels Quinn's strong hands gripping her around her upper arms, steadying her. Santana's heart thunders in her chest and she collapses heavily into the boat, hands gripping the edges until her knuckles whiten.

Quinn has the tact not to make fun of her, though Santana thinks she's biting her cheek to keep from smiling. Quinn descends into the boat with practiced ease after she pushes them away from the dock. Santana's heart strangles in her throat at the sight, because it looked like – for a split second – that Quinn was going to nosedive directly into the water. But she doesn't. Quinn settles herself onto one of the seats, and then she reaches for the oars. Santana had no idea this was a rowboat.

She settles deeper into her seat and watches as Quinn propels them with swift, sure motions out to the center of the watering hole. Here, no overhanging branches offer any shade, and the sunlight reflects off of the water blindingly.

Quinn lets the oars rest, and she leans back, allowing the boat to drift freely with the current. Santana eyes the surface of the water, but it's a murky, brackish blue-green-brown, and she can't see anything beneath the surface.

"It smells like a swamp out here," Santana complains.

Quinn smiles good-naturedly at her, and flips her hair out of her face.

"I never took you for the outdoorsy type, Q," Santana says after a moment.

"My grandpa used to bring me fishing out here." Quinn glances around, as if trying to make sure nobody is watching from the shore. But it's deserted. Birds of different varieties call out, the sound made loud and clear by the placid surface of the lake.

"Really? You?" Santana laughs. "Never woulda thunk it."

"I always want to throw them back, though," Quinn concedes. "It's too messy to skin them."

Santana makes a face, but doesn't comment.

"You were right," Quinn says suddenly. It makes Santana look at her abruptly, and Quinn is watching her with the most clarity in her eyes that Santana has seen in – well, maybe ever. Santana swallows and thinks, dully, that every time a new emotion drifts over Quinn's face, it's going to garner a response from her – and sometimes (most of the time) it's from south of the border, and it's _annoying,_ and she wishes it would stop.

"About what?"

"Getting out." Quinn says, and gestures to the open air. "I needed this."

Santana nods, even though she didn't exactly plan for them to spend the afternoon adrift in a rickety, possibly dangerous rowboat. She hopes that it will be worth it, because she doesn't like to risk her life in trivial pursuits.

"You're going to sunburn," It only just occurred to Santana, but she knows that it's true. The sunlight reflects off of the water, dancing patterns across Quinn's face, and there's already a spread of pink across the bridge of her nose.

"Oh, no," Quinn says, and touches her cheekbone. "You're probably right."

"We could go back," Santana offers, trying not to sound too hopeful.

Quinn smiles faintly. "In a little bit."

The boat spins in lazy, slow circles, and Santana gets bored. She drums her fingers against the edge of the boat and looks out over the water, trying to make herself care about the crane building a nest on the far side. She doesn't, though. What the hell even is a crane?

Quinn wiggles herself until she's lying almost flat in the boat, and she rests her arm over her eyes to protect them from the sunlight. Santana glances down at her, at the spread of her wheat-colored hair on the faded gray wood of the boat, and her lips – bow-shaped, and perfect – and the slight glimpse of her midriff, as her shirt has ridden up slightly. Santana's cheeks burn, and she doesn't even know why; it isn't like she hasn't seen Quinn practically _naked_ before.

"Tell me something," Quinn says softly. She doesn't look at Santana. She remains hidden behind her forearm, and Santana can only study her face.

"Like what?"

"Anything," Quinn says. "Something about your childhood. Something I don't already know."

That shouldn't be too hard – even though they've known each other for almost three years, Quinn and Santana never talk about things like.. childhoods. Or family lives. Or anything, really, beyond cheerleading and class assignments and the upcoming football game.

Santana thinks, and she supposes that since Quinn has already shared something about her grandfather, that Santana might as well return the favor.

"When I was younger, my parents were gone – almost night and day. They were emergency room interns, and they both worked 80 hour weeks." Santana presses her lips together, and looking out over the water, she tries not to get too lost in the memory. "I would spend a lot of time with my grandparents. My grandmother doesn't speak much English, but I didn't speak a lot of Spanish, either, since my mother doesn't know any." Santana grins. "So the time I spent with them, my grandmother would give me Spanish lessons. But – you know. I would get bored. Translating things gets.. monotonous." Santana shrugs.

"So my grandfather decided to make it fun for me. He bought me tea sets, and baby dolls, and sat down with me and my stuffed animals at a little pink table to play tea party with me. 'You see this, Santanita? This is _un tetera_,' he would say. And, 'Pass me the _azúcar, querida_,'" Santana can't help the smile that takes over her face at the memory. "He was so ridiculous, that man. He would think of different ways every day to help teach me. Before I went to bed every night, I would crawl into his lap and he would hold a globe and spin it, and point to someplace on the earth. He wanted me to memorize geography. 'What is this place, _mija?_ Do you know?' and I usually did. I would say, 'That's Cuba, Abuelo.' Or, _'Si,_ I see Egypt. I know the pyramids are there.'

"When I got older, and started reading, he would sit me in his lap after dinner and let me read the newspaper with him. Some days we would read the Spanish newspaper, and I learned words for things that my grandmother never said – things like politicians, and littering, and immigration. Other days we read the Lima Daily, and I learned about gas prices and the debate going on about whether or not to vaccinate your children." Santana rolls her eyes. "White people," She says, but her tone is good-natured.

She finally notices that Quinn is watching her, and it startles her; she was too caught up in the story, and the memory, that she had been staring out at the water and barely paid attention to Quinn, who shifted up on her elbows. Santana can't read the expression on Quinn's face, and it makes that fluttering start up behind her heart. She smiles weakly, but Quinn isn't smiling. Quinn is looking at her with the most intense expression – and Santana doesn't know what it _means._ She fiddles with her hands in her lap, and she finds herself holding her breath.

"Your grandfather played tea party with you?" Quinn asks finally, and she allows herself to smile. "That's precious, Santana."

Santana laughs and looks away, almost shyly. "He was a good man."

"My grandfather taught me how to kill chickens," Quinn says soberly, and it has Santana's eyes focusing on her again. "Not as fun of a story. But my grandfather is a tough man, and he taught me the value of being a realist. Life is messy, and it isn't fair."

Santana bites her lip, and then nods. "But he let you throw the fish back?"

The smile that washes over Quinn's face is like sunlight breaking through gray clouds. "Yes, he did that. Maybe he had a few soft spots."

As the day wears on, Santana becomes more and more alarmed by the fact that it looks like storm clouds are rolling in. In the evening, she nudges against Quinn's hip, who rouses enough to squint a glare at Santana.

"It's gonna rain, Q," Santana says, gesturing upwards. "Soon, probably."

Quinn sits up slowly, and uses her hand to smooth down her hair. She appraises the clouds, and then the way the water laps against the edge of the boat, and gives a nod. "Yeah. Let's head back."

Santana can't deny that she feels immense relief at this. She knows that it's silly – but she couldn't stop imagining them going down _Titanic_ style, having to cling to loose boards and other floatsam. And, let's be real, Santana is no Rose Bukater; she would never make any promises of _I'll never let go._

Quinn can probably swim, though, right?

Well, anyway, her worries prove to be unfounded, because a few minutes later, Quinn has them bumping up against the edge of the dock. She loops the rope over it a few times, and then climbs out of the boat. She leans down to steady it as Santana climbs much less gracefully out of it, but this time there's no pinwheeling moment where Santana is afraid she's going to fall.

She grins as if there's some kind of personal accomplishment in avoiding taking a plunge. Quinn just grunts with the effort of draping the tarp back over the boat.

They walk back towards Santana's car in easy silence. Santana is getting used to the taciturn nature of their relationship; sometimes it's comforting to not have to come up with things to say.

"Let's not go back just yet," Quinn says, just as they approach the car. Santana looks at her in question, and Quinn gestures. "We can watch the sunset, at least."

Santana nods, but she knows that it will be raining soon. The wind picks up, and the smell on it is that fresh but humid scent that always foretells rain. And the horizon is thick with heavy stormclouds.

Santana just climbs up onto the hood of her car, scooting until she rests with her back against the windshield. Quinn follows, falling in beside her, and Santana looks up at the sky.

She can see the first evidence of stars peeking out, and the faint ring of a moon. The sun is getting low, streaking pink and gold. Quinn looks towards it, and nowhere else, and Santana thinks that she must be trying to burn out her eyes.

"We spend a lot of time looking at the sky," Santana remarks.

Quinn exhales softly, and then nods.

Santana allows the silence to build, even though something begins to nag at the back of her brain. "Quinn," She begins, once they're surrounded mostly by darkness, and the faint peals of thunder sound in the distance. "Have you ever heard of how certain words in other languages just can't be translated into English?"

Quinn angles her head, rolling against the windshield, until she's looking at Santana. Santana is acutely aware of how near their faces are, and how serious Quinn's eyes are on hers, analyzing. She's getting used to it, though it still makes her stomach drop like taking a dive on a rollercoaster.

Quinn nods.

"Well," Santana's chest expands as she sucks in a breath, and then lets it go. She points her face towards the sky, where now the stars are blacked out by thick, gray clouds. "I was thinking about – you," Santana admits, and she's even more hyperaware of the intense focus of Quinn's eyes on her face. "And a word came to my mind. It's a German word," Santana picks at the hem of her shirt, trying to find a way to divert her nerves. "It's _weltschmerz_." She feels embarrassed at how peculiarly she pronounces it, turning the 'w' into a 'v' sound, her tongue rolling over the thick, guttural consonants. "It means.. something like world-weariness. Boredom. Being jaded or cynical or, just, typically.. young and tired of life already."

Quinn is quiet for a few moments, and Santana keeps her face turned away, because she knows the blood has rushed to her cheeks.

"Where did you learn about that?" Quinn asks, her voice low.

Santana lifts a single shoulder in a small shrug. "I just picked it up, here and there."

Quinn pauses. "You're full of surprises, Santana Lopez."

Santana turns to look at her, and she's abruptly aware of how close Quinn is – closer than she was before, surely. Their faces are only a whisper away from one another, and Santana's eyes dip towards Quinn's lips. She wets her own subconsciously, and when her gaze makes its way back up to Quinn's, Quinn is smiling knowingly.

The sharp crash of thunder breaks out directly overhead. Santana startles – a bright flash of lightning follows, and with it, the skies open, pouring down a veritable torrent upon them.

Santana gasps against the sudden shock of water, which is a complete downpour, and her ears are still ringing from the clap of thunder; her heart pounds in her chest and her fingers tremble.

It takes her a moment to realize Quinn is laughing. Really laughing. Her face is split in a wide grin, and Santana can see all of her teeth – she can make out the way Quinn's eyes are dancing through the curtain of dark rain.

She has no idea what to do when Quinn suddenly cups her face with both of her hands, and pulls her near; her mind blanks, completely, when Quinn pushes their mouths together. Quinn's lips – perfect and soft – taste of summer rain, salty sweat, and the earthy, natural taste of human. Santana can feel Quinn smiling into her mouth, and her own laugh – it's shy and thin, and full of wonderment – catches in her throat. Quinn finally pushes her tongue past Santana's lips, and Santana hums at the hot, slick sensation of it rubbing over her own. Her heart drums hard in her chest, and an ache begins, like a thick cord, pulling taut from her breastbone to her pelvis, down the center of her body.

Quinn makes everything inside of her quiver and flutter, and if Santana were sentimental – she's _not_ – she would say that it's like butterflies wrecking her stomach. She refuses to say it, even to herself, but it's an unsteady, flitting sensation, and it makes her feel like her head is floating, and all of her nerves are buzzing and snapping up and down her skin.

Quinn kisses her fully, and deeply, and the whole time the corners of her lips are smiling. The rain pelts down on them, soaking them to the bone; their clothes cling to every curve, and Santana can feel her hair settling in thick ropes against her neck, back, and ears. Quinn keeps her hands on Santana's face, keeping her steady, and Santana uses her own fingers to circle Quinn's wrists, holding her there.

Quinn pulls back only when it gets so bad that all Santana can hear is the thunderous downpour and her own pulse throbbing in her ears. Her cheeks are hot and her lips are swollen and bruised, and she watches Quinn's face, looking for – well, for the things she would normally see in a boy who kissed her like that; things like ravenous hunger, or triumph, or even shy accomplishment. But no, all Santana sees is Quinn's huge cheshire grin and her twinkling eyes, and she thinks that it's the happiest she's ever seen Quinn, with water plastering her hair to her face and slick rivers running from her chin and nose.

"We have to go!" Quinn shouts to be heard over the rain. "Come on!"

Santana slides down from the hood of her car, and her knees are weak. She walks unsteadily towards the passenger door and then climbs inside, shutting out the tumult. Quinn does the same, and in the confines of the car, the air is thick and moist and the din is muted and faraway.

Quinn looks at her again, and Santana can see that she's breathing hard and her lips are deeply red. Santana smiles, but she only has a moment to process before Quinn hooks her palm around the nape of Santana's neck and pulls her forward again into another crushing, bruising kiss.

It's their first summer together; the first one that launches a series of events that Quinn calls _traditions,_ but that Santana calls fate, life — inevitable destiny.

It won't be their last.

* * *

**A/N: **Due to the response this got, I've decided to continue it. Look for updates sporadically, because I'm busy with my other fics. But I appreciate everyone's input, truly!


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